Since When Did The Most Difficult Word Become Goodbye?
by LunaticEclipsed
Summary: Sometimes you knew exactly what you had before you lost it.


I unceremoniously yank a tissue from where I know the tissue box is, without looking. I accidentally rip the tissue and am left with a shred of layered paper. "Shit" I briefly allow myself to think. I use that shred of white to wipe the blurriness from my eyes, and then my unglamorously mucus-running nose. By that time, my eyes have filled up again. I give up and let myself cry.

I let myself go. I let my tears flow and my nose to breathe in as much mucus as quietly possible while my mind mercilessly runs through things I'll miss. Things I already miss. Things I have missed the moment they stopped, though you were only inches away from me. These things are now amplified, and amplifying with every passing second, because of the simple reason that I'll never experience them again.

I painfully remember feeling your lips on my cheek. They formed a half smile, the kind people make when they were truly happy and contented. I recall your penmanship on my forearm, telling me everything's going to be okay. I feel the spaces in my fingers being filled as I discover that you like me to hide your thumb in while we're holding hands because it makes you feel safe.

_Well I want to feel safe now_.

However, that didn't happen and all I got to feel were the painful wrenching of my heart and more hot tears running down my face.

The truth was it just didn't work. I knew fairytales didn't exist but I wanted to believe in my own version of one. I wanted us to work, no matter what it took. But sometimes it doesn't, and it leaves you feeling like you can't do anything about it and you've got to not try, or else both parties get even more hurt. I know they do.

I dig into my eyeballs with my shirt, trying to suck up every last tear I've got, but my eyes seem to be water coolers that can't go out of order at this point in time. I wish someone would tell me what to do with the memories. I can't go on like this. I sometimes don't want to go on at all.

So I do the only thing I can think of. I picked up a pen, and I write.

'Dear Rainbow' I start and my tears stop, paused by a suspicion that there could be something interesting to witness here.

'I think sometimes you can go on with your life knowing that you've found the one. But how far are you willing to walk if the one walks away, telling you she's just not meant for you? You never can know such things with certainty but with all the certainty I can muster, I've mustered it up for you. I could find a time when the pain is duller, less of a crying thing but more of a look-into-the-skies-and-think-about-us thing, the kind of cliché moment that romantic comedies always successfully drag us into believing. You are the only person I want to watch these movies with, the only person I want to endure and to wake up next to. When I was broken up with in the past, I had already envisioned it in the days before, loving him and yet knowing something was missing, even wanting it to happen. And after it happened, I was left with an absoluteness that it's over, that I need to move on. And I did. That is so unlike this. I can't accept it, I miss you and I'm scared.

'Before I met you, I wanted to die. Then you came in and you gave me life. I felt bits of it I never knew. I, for once, didn't run away from a problem I didn't want to be in. I saw exactly how you could love someone and hate someone so much at the same time. I saw how I evaded those things I hated and woke up with the good things still fresh in my mind. And I saw how everything demolished as if it was meant to happen, but never to be.

'I told myself I was okay with it, though. You were meant for me and me not for you. You have horizons to see and seas to go to. It's not even a broken heart for you; it's just a mistake to learn from. For me, it's exactly everything good and bad ending. I'm left with the okay bits and the tiring, boring things to go through, like they're routine. I don't want to live for okay.

'I'm not saying I want you back. I'm saying I don't know what to do, you don't talk to me, keep pushing me away and it's killing me. I'm saying, "Help me, please. I need you." '

Love,

Pinkie

Satisfied with the letter, I pick it up, scan through it and crumple it. It finds itself in the bin, where Rainbow will never find. It's over. I know it is. But a small fragment of the back of my mind keeps telling me:

"No it's not."

Well yeah, not for me it isn't. But just because the lighthouse doesn't want to see a ship go, it doesn't mean that the ship has long sailed away.


End file.
